


ginger snaps

by optimise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Fluff, Humor, an actual bean, neville is a bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/optimise/pseuds/optimise
Summary: He’s kind of in love with her already. And she kind of knows it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this kind of came on a whim (also—it accidentally posted yesterday for some reason and i was like???) but i hope you enjoy. eep. also, this is kind of a hard T range (M just to be safe i guess) for some swearing.

_neville x pansy_

He's sipping on ginger ale when he sees her for the first time.

She's gorgeous, terribly so; a bombshell, really, if Neville is to be honest with himself. She's kind of sort of tripping on her heels, and her ebony hair splatters over her face messily, as if she couldn't been bothered to use a hair pin, for Cripes' sake. And her legs. They go on for miles.  _Miles_.

So, Neville kind of sort of chokes on his drink, and the fizz settles uncomfortably in his throat, right beside the enormous lump that'd grown just from her. Like,  _really_ , just from her. And his hands reach out to grab some really, really salty peanuts from the glass crystal bowl tinted the most ugly colour of pink—probably tinted just like his cheeks—and he's just watching  _her_. Like,  _really_ , just watching her.

The man standing next to her is also kind of sort of hot—if one perceives someone paler than death and with ghastly light hair with tips like icicles  _hot_  (really, he's more cold than anything). And then Neville's throwing down his ginger-no-alcohol-because-he-wants-a-strong-liver-ale and ignoring Ron's drunken snorts and Hermione's bossy chides and Ginny's sensual flirting attempts on Harry.

And then  _she_ —she's drinking an  _extraordinary_  amount of her apple schnapps in gulps, right until she requests that lanky ice blond beside her to dance. He's not perving—Neville  _swears—_ but she's kind of pretty in all kinds of lights pulsing through this weirdly and strangely humid club. It's not like Neville likes the place, though. Because Neville Longbottom doesn't go clubbing. Like,  _ever_. It would've been a  _completely_  trash night if Harry didn't start crying after he realised he left a shoe in the loo, but whatever.

Neville spends the rest of the night contemplating between crying himself a river after seeing Luna Lovegood gallivant off with some weird dark guy and listening to Ron's terrible, terrible fear of enclosed spaces.

—

It's almost a miracle how he sees her in less than a week.

She's at this party by the lake—with a dock and everything—just like he is. And she  _talks_  to him. Neville doesn't get nervous—not anymore, really—but actually he's really nervous around her.

She bumps into him on the way to the toilets, and she's busy glaring at a spot on his chest because without heels, she's actually kind of short.

"Hey, just because you can't see me from all the way up there, buddy—" she begins to yell over the music that's currently thumping through his body in waves of fervour, "—doesn't mean you get to ignore the fact that there are actual people living down here on Earth!"

"I — I'm sorry. I didnt see you there," he stumbles out in a choked, cracked voice that more commonly resembles the crinkling leaves of autumn than an actual, cogent thought. And Neville doesn't  _stumble_. Not since he grew into his ears and reluctantly got a membership to the gym that Dean's always boasting about (it's really not that good, like, it has three treadmills—that's it).

"Clearly," she drawls, and he tilts down to look at her.  _Really_  look at her. And she smirks—it fits her.

She wipes away a sopping strand of her bangs that rests on her forehead, and Neville can  _clearly_  see her bright hazel eyes this time. They're warm. And luscious. Honey, almost. Her eyes remind Neville of ginger snap biscuits that he used to glob down as a child in his grandmother's bright orange—because she'd always taken a liking to weird colours—kitchen.

"I'm Neville," he yells over the music.

And he extends his left hand—because his right's too busy clutching onto a can of lemonade like it's his goddamn job. She trails her eyes down from his face toward his clammy hand and spies it with a tilt of his lips. She doesn't take his hand. He's more agog than anything at this point to care, though.

"Pansy," she sort of shouts back, leaning onto chest slightly because some vicious bloke bumped into her back. She stumbles. And he catches her,  _like it's his goddamn job_.

Pansy, like those flowers that smell strangely like absolutely nothing. No, really, there's no favourable scent. Neville does not recommend planting them, really, because all they do is muck up your garden and wilt a ton and attract aphids and get root rot—an absurd amount of it. Zero out of ten. But Pansy— _this_  Pansy—is kind of sort of pretty. He doesn't mind her.

"Er, I sort of have to take a piss, you know." She points behind him to a dark red wood door, and he immediately feels guilty.

Neville steps back, and she lets go of his forearm—and he  _hates_  the loss of contact. Just as she's about to step into the marbled-floor loo, she turns back with a smirk and gives sort of a wave—one that either says 'bye, nice talking to you, mate' or 'wait for me so we can snog later.'

He takes his chance and waits by a nearby cream wall, leaning casually—it took him three different poses before he decides on on  _that_  kind of leaning, but who cares because it's Pansy. The gorgeous, not aphid-filled, Pansy. She finds him a couple minutes later, and she kind of leers at him. Neville has to thank Dean for that gym recommendation later, when the bloke is not too busy attached at Seamus' lips, _that is_.

And just as she's about to do something,  _anything_ , Hermione stomps in between them—and,  _oh_ , Merlin, i _s she dripping wet?—_ latches onto Neville's shirt with a fist and drags him away. He doesn't really resist because apparently she wants to be a lawyer, and Neville's always been a bit afraid of the law.

It's a sad, sad day when Neville sees the glimpse of her ginger snap eyes flash something behind them as Hermione mumbles curse words and practically forces Neville to drive her home.

—

"Hey?" she yells right beside him, but it sort of comes out as a question, and Neville drops the tin of green tea leaves on his foot in fright.

It's Pansy. The gorgeous one. With the legs and shit.

"Uh, hi," he says back smoothly. She's here. At Tescos. Right beside him. He finally continues with, "Pansy, right?" because pretending to not really know her name is smooth as well.

She smirks. "Yeah, this is she." Pansy mimics him, "Neville, right?"

". . .yes."

"Well, Neville, you should probably pick up your tea." Pansy points to the fallen container on the ground

He glances down. She's right. So, he picks it up immediately.

"So, er, what're you doing here?" Neville asks, and he wants to fucking slap himself upside the head—because it's a goddamn supermarket and she's probably buying food.

"Strolling," she replies casually, glancing around. "I like to people-watch. Relieves me from all of my mother's claims about how batshit crazy I am, you know? It makes me feel better to know some people smell tomato soup cans before they pick them up for purchase."

He remains silent, so she speaks up again blankly, "It's a joke. I'm kidding."

Neville lets out a nervous laugh soon after, and—

_How much more awkward can this get? Honestly._

"Is there something on my nose?" she sort of asks with a snap, her fist going to rub the tip of her button nose. He shakes his head, twice to the right and twice to the left to let her know that there was, in fact, no such thing. "Then why do you keep staring at me like that?"

At this point, Neville wants to crawl in a hole and die—maybe he could get Dean to ship him some food while he's at it; his residence might be a while if he wishes to recover from this moment in history.

Pansy says something again—and bless her because he's utterly nervous in her presence—"Do you want my number or are you just going to keep leering at me or something?"

He nods vigorously.

He whips out his phone. She furiously slams her fingers into the keyboard before handing it back.

And that was that.

—

Neville's a terrible replier—to be completely honest.

He's every sort of trash combined in terms of  _actually_  typing back a message. He only ever uses his phone to inquire about his grandmother's Japanese garden and to call into his side-job if he's feeling ill before work. But now he has Pansy in his contact list. Pansy Parkinson—he soon learned.

And she's suave. And funny. And can barely spell actual words or say any cogent thoughts—but she's still suave and funny. Neville likes it.

 _i hate people who use those hot chocolate packets with lukewarm water,_  she says,  _like, why do u hate yourself sm_

Neville spends the next seven minutes deciphering her message and deciding what to reply. He toys with the idea of texting Dean, but he'd probably give him so much shit—so that idea is most  _definitely_  out. Maybe Seamus, but he'd probably tell Dean, and they'd both give him so much shit.

 _Yes, same_ is what he comes up with a good fourteen minutes later. He's pathetic.

 _wanna hang later_ she replies roughly forty-seven seconds later (he counted).

And then he had it—he'd totally invite her to game night. She'd fucking love it. The dress-up part and everything. He contrives an entire plan in his head—she'd meet his friends and play the game and then maybe (if he's bloody lucky), she'll snog him later.

He constructs an adequate text to invite her—it takes thirteen minutes of typing and deleting and typing then deleting again—he even takes a couple breaks to pace around his room—but it's so worth it.

And she replies in three words that practically hold the key to his heart—

_i'll be there_

Neville smiles lopsidedly.

—

It's game night.

Neville hates game night.

He hates it because Ron cheats—even if he denies it every. Single. Time. And Luna is busy necking with  _Blaise_  the dark, brooding man, and Harry's ignoring Ginny in the most deflective of ways (if you count eating cheese puffs and literally just ignoring her as  _deflective_ ). And Neville's sighing into his palm because he's still mad that Pansy didn't even have the decency to text him that she wasn't coming tonight, and he's  _mad_  because it's  _game night_.

They're playing  _Cluedo_. The type of  _Cluedo_  that everyone actually dresses up and gets into character for. And Neville's Colonel Mustard. Yes, he has a moustache. And  _maybe_  sideburns. But he's still mad. Because,  _literally_ , Ron just took a peak in the beige folder, but everyone's too busy fucking fighting over who gets to fucking start to even fucking notice.

Hermione's—Miss Scarlett right now, though—about to blow her top off because she just saw  _Ronald_  take a swipe at her organic kale crisps that she paid way too much for just for a bunch of dried leaves. And Harry—Reverend Green—just stuffed four more cheese puffs in his mouth, and, blimey,  _can he even breathe?_  Ginny—Mrs. White—just smacked her brother atop the head, and both Professor Plum, played by Luna, and Mrs. Peacock, played by Blaise, are snogging again. And—

"Would everyone just  _shut_  up?" Neville bursts out. His face is red. He knows it. It  _must_  be funny to look at, though he can't see himself. "We're going to roll to see who gets to start, okay?"

"But,  _usually_ —" Hermione begins. Neville holds up a hand to stop her. Harry blinks. Ginny lets go of Ron's hair. And even Luna comes up for air.

"Who got his bloody knickers in a twist?" Ron mumbles, and Ginny smacks his chest again. The former winces and rubs the affected area with a pout.

"We're  _rolling_ ," Neville accentuates the last word, picks up the dice, and rolls to fucking start the fucking game.

He really hates game night.

—

Neville decides on the spot that this Pansy smells way better than the ones he's used to. She didn't make it to game night—to his dismay. But she had texted him just as he left Harry's flat that night with a profuse apology—her cat got the runs, a lot of it—and an invitation to 'come over and hang' with her, like, the same night.

So,  _yeah_ , maybe Neville dropped his Colonel Mustard moustache and matching sideburns on the tube somewhere as he made his way over to her place. And,  _yeah_ , maybe she was currently straddling him on her couch after a very, very dismal attempt at conversation over some Christmas movie running on the television.

He doesn't mind much.

Because Pansy's hot mouth was right over his neck, cutting between kissing and blowing tufts of air, and her knickers were right on top of his yellow banana trousers, rubbing  _just_   _right_. Her skin is so warm; it's practically scorching through his matching yellow banana coat. And her legs—her  _mile-long_  legs—are tangled up in his until you couldn't possibly distinguish one of them from the other.

Her hands, her  _really_  soft hands, trail up his coat to tangle with his blond locks of hair in that little spot at the nape of her neck. He's panting—an absurd amount, if he's being honest—and he's kind of in love with her already. And it's like she kind of knows it.

And if he's being honest once more, he's about ten seconds away from coming in his trousers when she bites down—like  _really_  hard that it really  _hurt_ —on the skin above his collarbone until it's sucked taut, and—

Pansy climbs off his lap. He's gaping and looking at her.

She has her violet lipstick smeared all over her face, and  _surely_  now he does as well. He's still gaping. He's absolutely astonished. I mean,  _yeah_ , he hadn't expected her to accost him like  _that_  when he walked through her door, but he also hadn't expected her to suddenly and abruptly just—

 _Stop_.

"We should have dinner," she suddenly says, a lot more cool and collected than he is at the moment. It's not even a request, at this point. Neville doesn't really know what he's expecting from her anymore. "Tomorrow."

He manages to stumble out a quick and breathy and raspy, "Yeah, sure."

—

"What do you mean  _you_  have a date tonight?" Dean says, more astonished than he should be, Neville thinks. "Are we talking about the same person?"

Neville's currently trying to get himself mentally ready for later that night, but he's too busy ranting to Dean and Seamus. Not third wheeling. He's definitely not doing that. Dean sets down his chocolate croissant and frantically waves in front of Neville's face to prompt him to respond.

"And who would that be?" Neville sighs into his mug of mint green tea. It's very refreshing. And calming.

" _You_!" Dean says, blinking profusely.

"No, I'm serious, I have a date tonight. Well, actually, I don't know if it's a date. It's a dinner thing. Like, a really casual dinner thing. Not a date, I think. More like two kind-of-acquaintances eating simultaneously at a designated place."

"So, a date—" Dean suddenly adds.

"Blimey," Seamus cuts in, shaking his head in a way more awed than should be fucking expected, Neville thinks again. "You've gone rogue."

"With who?" Dean quickly shoots.

"Pansy."

"Pansy  _who_?"

"Just Pansy." Neville takes a drink of his tea to stop their flurry of questions, but he ends up scalding his tongue in the process. He nearly chokes from the temperature but gulps it down anyway. Today is  _not_  a good day.

Dean alternates between flat-out staring in wonder and clearing his throat.

"Fucking hell, mate—" Dean begins, tear-struck and sniffling, "—I'm so proud of you."

"Oi, shut up." Neville has to swat away their lingering hands before the pair of them start hugging him or something.

—

She takes—or forces, if you want to be more precise—him to a small Italian restaurant, tucked in between two sketchy corners, and it has a salt water fish tank that bubbles loudly near the entrance. Neville's entranced.

And Pansy ends up hogging all the garlic bread and drinking his water after she accidentally choked on a garnish on top of her linguini, but he still smiles. It's fun. Pansy talks for a couple minutes at a time about how much she despises any music other than  _The Smiths_  and maybe, just maybe on a good day  _Beyoncé,_ then she proceeds to take a five minute break where they sit in absolute silence. And it continues that way until she's scarfing down her fried banana and vanilla ice cream dessert while also discussing the absurdity of wearing socks and shoes,  _together_.

They're strolling down the grungy street, hand in hand, like they've been dating for years or something, and he's sweating a little bit and she doesn't mind.

It's kind of perfect.

"I love the smell of blood," she admits after they started playing a game—to make up for game night, you see—that makes both of them reluctantly admit something weird about them.

"I have six toes," he says softly, and she pauses in the street.

"Wait — really?" Pansy clarifies, and he nods. She keeps walking. "That's really fucking weird."

"Only on my left foot."

"That doesn't make it any better." She wrinkles her nose and gazes at him with a pointed look on her face.

"Your turn."

She's silent.

And when she finally speaks, it's barely above a whisper—

"I think we should have dinner tomorrow, too."

"Yeah, me too."


End file.
